Not Dreaming of World Peace, Necessarily

Of all the dreams I have, around a tenth of them, probably, have to do with warfare. In such dreams, I am almost never an observer of a war, but nearly always a regular soldier, an infantryman. I do not know what it is that I do to lead my mind to dream such dreams, but through my sleeping life, I have found myself in quite a number of unfortunate circumstances. I have participated in grand Medieval conflicts to offensives in the trenches of World War One. Why, just last night, I think I was in World War Two.

I am not sure what phase of the war it was, but it was probably earlier in 1943 or ’44, judging by the fact that I was an American and the Germans were on the advance. The uniforms were typical for me: green, a round helmet with netting, and standard combat boots (I always tend to be in the standard infantry). This dream, like most of the others similar to it, was actually fairly realistic.

I was alone, just behind the front line, where the rest of my company was positioned. The reason for our separation was simply that I was receiving myself behind some crumbled building. It was a cloudy afternoon, and every few seconds, a shot would ring out. Our forces occupied a small town just below a wide, low hill, which we also occupied. The enemy - the German infantry - was just beyond, over the next hill.

As I returned to my position to my comrades, walking along the hill to get there, I spotted a group of five enemy soldiers making their way through a low ditch just beyond their grey, crumbling town. They evidently thought that nobody could see them, judging by how they went about, and for the most part, that was true. I, however, was in just the position to spot them. Without thinking, like an idiot I discharged five shots from my bolt-action rifle (a cheap thing, indeed). I missed all five shots, and the German soldiers, at first surprised, retaliated by jumping for cover and firing at me.

I dove for the ground, keeping behind the smallest lip of earth. “Keep your head down,” I thought. “By gosh, keep your head down if you want to live!” The rapid shooting alerted the forces of both sides, and within seconds, a small skirmish had begun. I figured that I would be dead if I stayed in my palace of menial cover any longer, and I suspected that the Germans had stopped shooting at me, so I took a chance and ran farther up the hill.

Somehow, I made it, and dove into a small shell hole where several of my fellows were already hunkered. Several of them - the braver ones - were firing over the edge, but me and the others in there cowered inside our little cover. I took one glance over the shell hole, and saw complete chaos. Something landed in our cover, and before anyone could even process what it was, instinct drove everyone out of the space at the exact same time.

Like rabid animals, we desperately tried to evade the fate that we knew was imminent. We clung to each other’s shirts, trying to climb over ourselves to get out. We trampled each other. It was as if some invisible force would not let us leave. The explosive went off within about three seconds, and to our misfortune, it was a well-armed one. Several of us were immediately killed, several wounded, and several unharmed. These last fellows ran about to find some other cover.

I, however, had been grazed along the left cheek and stuck with shrapnel in the calf. So, gripping by bleeding face, I staggered desperately to another collapsed structure. There was nothing left of it but part of some of its walls, piles of stone, and an utterly distraught, busted wooden door hanging from the hinges of a single doorway. I staggered inside and sat down, shaking and suddenly tired.

As I lay there, catching my breath, I happened to turn my head, and I saw, only about twenty or thirty yards away, an enemy soldier, a sniper, perched just behind some pile of rocks and debris, aiming his rifle somewhere far away from me. I was close enough to hit him, I knew it. If I acted swiftly, perhaps I could save someone else's life.

Quietly, I crept against the low ruins of the wall and squated behind it. I positioned my rifle, and rolled my neck as I brought my eyes to the iron sight. I had this poor man in my sights: he had no chance of survival. Then, out of the corner of my eye, something disturbed me.

I more or less slowly turned my head, keeping the rest of my body still, and I spotted there, about the same distance from me as the man I was trying to shoot was, another sniper, this one aiming his rifle at me. His shaved head was not covered by a helmet, and his face was stern with concentration as he squinted through his scope. I had absolutely no time to react. Before my mind even comprehended that there was a person there, CRACK!

My dream switched to an observing view as I witnessed this poor soldier who had once been me fall backward with a bullet hole right between his eyes. Like most dreams I have ever dreamt, if not all of them, I do not actually die. Accordingly, before I, as the soldier, could die, my perspective left the poor avatar that was the now-deceased soldier just before I was killed. The soldier, of course, did die, but I was no longer that soldier when it happened.

I do not know why I bore you with this little reminiscence, but for some reason, I had an inclination to write it down and post it. My mind seems to believe that there is some philosophical takeaway from the whole experience, but I can think of none. It was entertaining, I suppose, and I also conjecture that it does indicate that one cannot die in one's own dreams, yet they can surely kill, and witness death.